


Closed Comms

by BubblegumCannibal



Series: Raid Team: Cerberus [1]
Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: M/M, NSFW, OC/Canon, Porn with Feelings, lore bites, pre-death suicide mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-08-03 05:47:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16320263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BubblegumCannibal/pseuds/BubblegumCannibal
Summary: A hunter finds himself in a loop of learning about himself. In a weirder outcome, someone knows every ounce of his past to fill the gaps.





	1. Holo messages.

**Author's Note:**

> I fell into this hole making faux pas grimore cards for my guardians... I don't know how I fell this deep into this hole but I'm not leaving.

Seven…

Six. Five. Four. Three…?

And who else? God, I can’t remember. There were twelve of us, working the walls and hunting warlords like we’re one of  _them_ … You know, like a Guardian. Well,  ** _One_**  was one. Worked on the Tower until he couldn’t take it anymore. Apparently the Speaker was too invested in becoming a God in his own mind that it almost felt as if Guardians were forced into a cult they didn’t want to be in.

Hell, One didn’t want to be there. He was happy to be dead… we made sure he was buried the way he wanted and they desecrated him.

We were outlaws, free from the tower’s control and friendly faces to innocents stuck under the thumbs… but we were happy this way. We were happy living among the land and jumping from city to city. We were happy as a family, even if we were just numbers. And then we dwindled… and dwindled… Twelve became ten. Ten became eight…

The whispering was so loud.  _They aren’t worth it._ It demanded blood. Screamed for it until the trigger was pulled… Turned out Twelve was still alive, his rifle corroded and covered in rust and blood. With my heart beating in my ears, those whispers begged for me to take that gun. It was ruining him and I had to bring him back or eliminate him.

Eight became six. Five… Four… Nine… Three… Six…

He took Six. So, I took Twelve.

Twelve became two, then Seven became  _one._

The overgrown populace of earth across Old Chicago never felt so lonely. All the shitty tavern songs Eight would belt at the top of his lungs. All the silly poems Eleven would quote when she needed a moment to raise our spirits. The elation Six felt when I… I miss Six.

Holding that gun that spoke to me made it worse. It still craved blood. Death never sated its arousal. I am no murderer… or am I? I took the life of my friend because he took someone I loved.

To whom may find my final words:  _Destroy the Red Death. **Do it. Don’t question why either.**_  However, if I ever return as a Guardian, which heavens knows I don’t want it to happen, send this to me with no message when you find me. I deserve to know what happened before I died. The Speaker doesn’t allow Guardian’s to know the truth of who they once were, I believe otherwise.

My name…  _Silvian._  I threw it away a long time ago. Silvian Joseph Marx... that is who I was before, but I am Seven now. I deserve to at least know that… But don’t tell me how I died. I don’t deserve to know how weak I was to escape the clutches of the Red Death. It ruined me, don’t let it ruin you too.

_Please… **Please.**_

 

 


	2. Drifter.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gambit is somewhere on the tower doing something and being a giant hit. So says rumors on the tower that is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can't tell me Ikora doesn't know Drifter is back in his secret little corner. Zavala MAYBE.

_Someone has bypassed my silencers. Incoming Transmission from Drifter._

“You hidin’ from someone… ain’t cha?”

                Seven glanced up to catch the glow of One hovering in front of him. Softly did his optic glow a gentle green with the incoming call, but not once did he respond. He wanted to be alone, secluded away in his own thoughts in a spot on the tower he thought no one would bother him in. There was nothing but cool air and the sight of the city from here… aside from the hall that led to the elevator, but there nothing else. Rarely had he ever come across anyone else lurking up here. Some found it too quiet, free from the hustle and bustle of tower staff and no intercom system to have the soft music trickling through. And yet here comes the calls he thought he could ignore. It was worth a try.

                “I don’t think it counts as hiding when you’ve found me.”

                The man snorts, “Then tell me, what  _are_ ya sittin’ up there for when there’s shit to do and critters to shoot?”

                “I was enjoying the silence.”

                “Bullshit.”

                “You did ask.”

                There’s a gentle shuffle, “Hold on.”

                One’s optic shimmers from green back to blue. The small thing clicks and whirrs before settling on the railing before him with confused noise, “It seems as if he’s disconnected. Maybe he’ll try to reconnect?”

                “I hope not.”

It’s longer than he expected. A few minutes and then a door opens down the hall. Seven can hear the shuffle of someone shuffling their way down with a series of huffs and jingles as if a guardian was just trying to head back to their flat. Yet, with time a figure catches his attention rounding the corner beside him. Gently does he hear a few guns clatter to the ground before the other takes to the floor beside him in a loud huff.

                There’s nothing wrong with Drifter. He’s a bit of an odd one, yes, but all in all a good man. And yet, nothing makes sense of why he’s so curious about Seven.

                “Do you need me for something.”

                Drifter shakes his head, “Nah.”

                “Then what do you want?”

                “What? Can’t get to know my new friends? I see your fireteam captain all the time, but I rarely see you. Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a lil’ bit of mayhem. Heard you like the chaos that ensues in tight Crucible matches.” Drifter laughs, “Don’t like me?”

                “You came all the way down here to come give me a sale pitch?”

                “Nah. Like I said, I came down here to come get to know my new friends. You count, even if ya don’t come party with me in Gambit. I get cha. I get cha.”

                Seven sighs, “I’m not avoiding Gambit. I haven’t had time for you, Shaxx, or Saladin… and I really want that armor Saladin is dishing out.”

                Drifter chuckles this time, easing further against the wall, almost slouching if he could, “Fancy ass samurai armor for hunters, eh? Ain’t gonna lie, you’d look good in it.”

                Did he almost ignore the compliment out of habit or was it because of who Drifter was? This was a man with no name and a rumor. He was a light-bearer, not a guardian. Though he had his ghost, he was no protector. Stories of him circled of being a serial killer on watch from Malphur, but even that came across like a stretch. Shin Malphur allowed this man access to the tower as if he was once a guardian, but with the stories that come out of his mouth, even  _that too_  seemed like a stretch. So, who was he? Who was The Drifter? Who was this man who easily excited by the sheer thought of absolute chaos and why ping  _him?_

                Their paths never crossed… or so he thought. Seven lived with outlaws and light-bearers, yes, but none of them spent enough time to befriend or establish contacts. They came and went, like a leaf in the breeze. Then again, his memories were still muddied by that of the Traveler. No matter how many times he’d throw himself off some cliff for the sake of regaining  _something_  back in death, there were still holes and barely a face to remember.

                “Thought I’d chat with ya before ya set off again,” Drifter continued, using the edge of his dagger to clean under his nails, “You… You got me thinkin’ when I saw ya set off with the French one… You uh… Shit, how do I put this…” He pauses for a moment, waggling the blade between his fingers now, “I really did try to pre-plan this conversation.”

                “…Why?”

                “Bein’ blunt about it, seein’ you without Six just ain’t right.”

                “Excuse… excuse me? Without who?” Is he shaking? Is it visible? Can Drifter hear the thudding of his heart in his chest? “Who are you?”  _A villain? A monster? Twelve? **God, don’t be Twelve.**_

                “This is why I tried to pre-plan! Didn’t want to make it sound like I was stalkin’ ya.” Drifter sits back up, crossing his legs to lean forward on his thighs, “It’s clear ya don’t or might not remember anything from before becomin’ a guardian, but…  _I know ya._ ”

                “A part of me doesn’t want to know how…” It almost came like whisper, timid to follow the gaze of fear in his features.

                He moves quick, creeping up from his spot to crouch onto his feet. Drifter almost sways like a snake studying its meal with a cautious stare, “It ain’t like that. I’ve knew you before ya lost that eye of yours—my boys were the one who got ya back up and movin’, but I, uh…” He shakes his head, “Only thing I remember most was you and that exo of yours. Both of y’all livin’ life to the fullest— _happy.”_

                “Why are you bringing this up?”

                “Because it ain’t right seein’ you so down and quiet when I’ve seen ya cheerier than a pig in slop. Six would want ya happy… so I intend to make sure my best friend’s bit of happiness is still there, even if it’s small.” He’s on the balls of his feet now, leaning close, hands on the scarred cheeks of the younger hunter. Almond eyes remain focused, stern almost, as he traces the scar of Seven’s eye, down his cheek bone with a frown, “I made a promise to Six, ya know? We outsiders gotta stick together.”

                Seven’s eyes pull away for a moment, down to the floor, staring at the messy scuffs across Drifter’s brown boots. How exactly is he supposed to feel about this? Never once had he come across another person who knew him when he was young and carefree…  Is it worth knowing? His past, that is. Should he stay close and tend to those holes? Old messages that he left behind back then did ring true, Seven deserved to know the truth of who he was before… even if the stories came from a man known for eating cabal and hive flesh for fun.

                But alas, he’s more hooked on the softness of his hands still at his cheeks. For a man usually up to no good, his hands should be hard and calloused from centuries of gunslinging and digging around in forbidden areas trying to keep yourself alive, but he’s at peace here… like he was then.

                “I want to know everything. Everything you can remember.”

                A final nod, “I’ll start from the top.”


	3. Letters from D.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drifter leaves a lot of information for an old friend and hopes something positive happens out of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nothing about this is coherent or properly connected. they are just short stories and grimoires. :p

_“There are real high hopes that you find this. In which, by time you hear this, you’ve either died and become a guardian, or the Void finally ate the last of your mind and you’ve gone off your rocket. Either way, I’m going to try and pull ya back to reality. Trust me, you’re going to need it. I need you to read all of it. Every word. Let it imprint on you, because a lot of it comes from you—the previous you. The one that was either alive or the one that descended into madness. I’m your friend, Seven. **Your best friend.** ”_

The message ends with a subtle, but abrupt click and the Ghost hovers away from Seven for a moment before returning, ever so slowly, with a leather-bound journal. It’s old, worn to the point of the binding falling out and the spine limp as can be. Slowly he unwinds the unraveling strap and sits it to the side. There was more to this, a few more old journals, all of them filled with multi-colored tabs and loose pages, but it was all left in a box in front of the door with the holo-message and a note that just read, “Hug and kisses, Drifter.”

Though a week had passed from their little high-rise conversation, Seven hadn’t spoken to him since. He claimed to know him—the  _real_  him, as if there had been any other version of him out there. And yet, he listened. Drifter said he  _knew_  him. Mentioned that he was a little hurt they never met during Twilight Gap, but perhaps it was for the best.

A page slid out of the journal.  **READ ME**  right at the top of the page and underlined. Maybe not meeting during Twilight Gap was just another word for “Fate.” Every story that came with the Drifter left his friends dead in a crater somewhere. Then again, with all the holes in his memory, maybe meeting him now was what he needed. Maybe this will fill one of the holes… just maybe.

* * *

##  _**July [REDACTED]** _

When we met, I really thought there was no reason for a guy like him to be as far as he is away from any protection of the Vanguard. I met you, just a couple days into my visit at Olympus. It was a recolonized bunker in Old Chicago. They introduced you as head scavenger, never did quite understand what that meant. You were just a really good hunter. One shot, one kill type of guy. I respected that, but you were just… empty to me and my crew. Which was fair, apparently you didn’t quite live it as easy as one would assume. And that was as much as  _anyone_  knew.

Found it enticing, like tasting that forbidden ice cream cone. I  _had_ to know why no one knew  _you_ and why you kept so quiet. I guess it was me just being nosy and I did dig too far.  ** _You noticed me._** You pinned a note to my door via a big-ass knife that I couldn’t pull out and a note that simply read, “please leave me alone.” And why? Don’t know why. I’m sure that knife is still there waiting for its King Arthur to retrieve it like was Excalibur or something, but it doesn’t explain to me why you never wanted to speak with me.

Turns out, I simply stepped into too close. You didn’t like that. You preferred people at a distance. People getting too close made you uncomfortable and weary of their existence. Which was understandable. You needed time to get to know me and my crew before any of us got anywhere near you and I learned it the hard way. Eventually, you came ‘round. Finally saw how you were around Six. Finally got a chance to see that “intimate” side of you that almost felt like  _too_  much. You became more chatty, didn’t push me away, almost came off as weird, but I accepted it because I was accepted by you.

Six was one hell of a fella, by the way. Massive like a city titan. Looked like a brick shit house and moved like one too. Loved watching him fight just as much as you did. The praise that came out of your mouth was like sex only he could hear—fortunately, tagging along on your search and destroy missions, getting to hear the only things share between the two of you, drove me nuts.

In a good way, I promise. I was a little jealous. All those little pet names you’d share between the two, the little smile that could be heard in your voice? Beautiful then, bet it’s still beautiful now. All this mischief and ill-advised behavior ‘tween the two of you? Shit, it made me want to settle down for once. But, alas, ain’t gonna happen. Too much shit to do on my end.

But stars above, I won’t lie to you, I adored watching you work. That old sniper rifle that held that little, ugly sapphire turtle with a rusted bell. You could care less if people heard you chiming in the distance, you made the shot every time. Learned about that gum tick you had. One of the numbered guys out of your group—Four, I think?—told me that it had to be seen. Gum would put you at ease, mindlessly chewing and blowing bubbles. And I asked why. Four handed me a pack of peppermint bubblegum and said “It’s the good stuff that really keeps him focused. Always gotta make sure it’s the one that lets you blow the big bubbles ‘cuz when it pops, he’s landed a hit and the bigger the bubble the farther the target.” Of course I didn’t believe it. Had to see it with my own eyes. And you set me off, setting up moving targets of wandering Fallen—popped one at half a mile out. Next at a mile. Third at two. My sparrow’s headlight at almost four (it never got fixed by the by). But even then, I heard you could catch them even further. One day, I hope to see that one.

Does it sound ridiculous? Absolutely. But I saw why they made you the head honcho up in the quietest roost.

I did learn something while I was up there. You kept tallies of every human, fallen, cabal, and awoken you’ve ever taken out up in that little sky hut. When I make jokes about the bodies under my belt, it’s a joke—yours were a promise. I’m still afraid of how many your bodies your blades have. Knives that big? I don’t even have knives that big and I’ve been running the same shit you had for decades.

**_Side note:_**  Not sure what happened to Alpha and Omega. Still remember how beautiful those knives were. Kinda want to see you work that magic one more time, channeling all that arc into a dancing cyclone. You may not have been a straight melee type of man, but damn. Whoever trained you back in Twilight Gap did you damn well.

**_Second note:_**  Cataclysm might still be at Olympus along with the Cataclysm comics you kept with it. Just a thing to note.

Anyway, this was barely the start.

I met  _you_  on accident. Allow me to explain this. I met Silvian Marx, the man with the rap sheet that goes on for ages. The boy who was forced into enlisting at Twilight Gap. The  _deserter._   ** _The outlaw._** Came across a moment I’d never forget. Saw you unable to breathe, standing in the middle of your personal quarters, crying—laughing as hard as you could with a set of papers in your hand. And curious ol’ me asked too many questions yet again.

“I’m free,” you said, “city isn’t looking for me anymore. I’m not a deserter to them, but a victim— someone who escaped. Everything I’ve done… all the people I killed…  _Null and fucking void._ ”

Fresh out of juvie, you entered the military by force. Either you die in prison or you die serving your galaxy. Thought it was an easy escape and it wasn’t. Turned out to be free, easy labor. They shoved you all into battle without permission from the Vanguard. You and the group you started with built created the best of the best of that time… and all of you were just kids. None of you able to buy alcohol let alone a gun, and there you were. All of you crafted into literal weapons for the city whether you wanted it or not.

Wish I knew about this. Would have tried to get all of you out. You told me how bad it got. Some went nuts, didn’t know why. Some willingly died in battle, didn’t know about that one either. Rest of you suffered until all of you were seen as soldiers and given ranks… but you ran once you saw your opening. You ran far. Didn’t look back. Not even mad about it, honestly. I left too, but much later after Twilight.

I got nosy, read that paper they sent you. Shitty apology. Speaker talking out of his ass about how you weren’t forgotten by the city and needed to come back for the mental help that might have harmed you while you served. Too late for that. But I learned about the first you— _Silvian._  He wasn’t a good person in the eyes of the city, know that. Silvian Marx was known for snapping. A bad behavior that couldn’t be tamed, an anger issue ready and willing to explode on the wrong person and the right time, but they had no idea what to do with you.

It showed how dangerous a man with nothing to lose really is when he’s overburdened with limits and warnings. However, it was your higher ups that really did this to you when your mind needed help. Mentally, you weren’t healthy and rather than giving you and the rest of those kids the therapy all of you needed before enlisting, they exacerbated it and yet… The  _you_  I met… he was…  ** _learning._**  He was figuring out how important people were to him now that he had someone to protect and love happily. Did leave me wondering how far you’d go before you snapped one last time and did it all over again. It never came, but your mind was strong enough to fight and protect before going down in a blaze of glory.

I got nosy again and asked about your parents. You told me you didn’t know. I recall you shrugging but never answering me. Made me think it wasn’t because you  _didn’t_ know them, more so because you just didn’t want to speak about them in general. You didn’t act as if they were dead or if you were orphaned, so I could only assume. Maybe they had disapproved of your behavior because it felt as if there was more to it… which led to another question.

_How the fuck did you get so good with a gun?_  I mean the sniper, that is. Felt like something before you enlisted. Probably listed on your rap sheet that I just glazed over. But all I can say is that your sniping was great, but your blade work was always better. Watched you use a common dull blade slice through armor like a freshly sharpened sword. Set my heart on fire watching you dip and dive through enemies and striking the earth with lighting like an angry storm. Fucking entrancing to watch you vent, even better when better when it was just you and your sidearm.

However, it did bring up an old topic I used to just flake over—you were a lightbearer. We aren’t always guardians nor do all of us ever have ghosts. The Traveler gives us a ghost because the Speaker thinks we’re “chosen,” but it’s really just given to us as a curse. And that’s when things started piercing together. You honed your arc but never succeeded in taming your void. Not once had I ever seen you use it without it making you sick and solar apparently made you overheat. But things made sense at that point. Void is what sent you over the edge to where you became desperate. That static noise that you hear, grating at the back of your head must have driven you insane. You weren’t sheltered or raised poorly, it was the fact that the void pushed you to isolate yourself, to embrace that darkness that scared others. Sometimes really bad shit happens and that’s one of them. And to make things worse? Most of us are usually abandoned because our little talents.

It’s not your fault. It’s never your fault. All of this tied it all together for me. You had learned and evolved as you went through country and state, but still never got that void training until now, probably…

You’re still strong though. When I found the bunker, the bodies and blood left behind, I almost broke down. I had gotten used to loosing friends left and right, but you hit me the hardest, helped me embrace death like a celebration.

I celebrated you and the rest of them… I celebrated my friends in death and kept their memory alive. That’s why I sent you that holo-recording of your last message. I needed you to know who you were and why you were so important. I needed you strong again.

_**–  D.** _


	4. Turtle Soup.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cabal are just really big, boiled, ugly turtles with uglier salamander friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -gun fingers-

“Stop. Three turtles patrolling. Left, right, and center. Center looks to be a champion, maybe?”

Drifter chuckled, glancing over at the titan beside him then over his shoulder, “You question that like you can’t take him out.”

“Give me a second to readjust. Its shields are gonna be a pain.”

“Adjust, sunshine? Can’t pop him from there?”

Another chuckle is heard over the comms and Drifter glances over to his side. Mighty, as we was tall, an exo, Six, he was called, sat crouched with his head low, feeding bullets into the clip of his gun “Adjust meaning sitting up. Or are you laying down?”

There’s a pause then a soft noise, “Sitting up. There was a rock in my chest.“ There’s a popping noise, one that sounded like bubblegum deflating, “Make your move now, boys. I got the big one.”

He moves quick for a tank, Drifter will give him that. Last time he saw someone as big as him move like that, the Lord of the Crucible lost a horn. Down goes the unaware cabal with yank, tiny head first into the uneven concrete before he draws his weapon and empties two muffled bullets into its head. Drifter goes to follow the left, a shot behind its leg to stagger then a couple to the head—its down with a wet thud. Didn’t take long to hear the clatter of the champion’s gun sliding away.

“We clear?” Six peaks around the corner, slowly coming back to his original spot, “You’ve been quiet for a bit too long, babe.”

Still silence, then a chirp, “Hold. I think we’ve been lured here. Get out of there. Get ou—”

If there had been a visible expression on Six’s face, Drifter swore he could see it in the widening expression in the exo’s eyes. He could see that brightness almost light the space around them before shuffling to his feet, summoning his sparrow in a hurry. Drifter follows close behind, the trail of their sparrow’s leaving the only light in the area and the sound of the blaster almost deafening.

There’s still no response from Seven. No cracking of his gum, no sounds of exasperation, not even a resounding chime of “I’m okay.” For once, Drifter could feel his heart pounding in his chest, thudding with a pain that could have pulled him over to puke somewhere in the grass. But why is he so afraid? No— _worried?_  Seven was nothing but an acquaintance—a  _good_ friend on the same level of his own crew, and here he is, fretting over a man that isn’t even his. And yet that burn in his chest could rival Six’s (and that included the nausea).

“Seven?!” Six bellowed, his hollow voice breaking, “come in— _Seven!_ ”

Silence again, but this time a chime rings over their comms once again. The two of them felt relief, but only for less than a second. The voice that responded was low and distorted—empty and void of any humanity. “Two down. Ten to go. I will turn you all to ash with your light.”

A crack of gunfire and then another and another and all Drifter could see was fire. Sparrow overturned away from them, Six went charging in, hammers ablaze in his fist as he threw them into the darkness, the roars of furious cabal dissolving into nothing. Drifter could barely see them until they lit up like an oil covered candle. That enraged yell, guttural and robotic, clutched at the back of Drifter’s head, the desperation echoing within. It hurt to hear Six so raw and exposed that he knew damn well it was going to be even worse to see the aftermath.

Patches of dry grass gave them the lighting they need, the cabal fallen but their mystery voice long gone. Blood circled their boots in puddles, cabal charred and blackened. They seemed to be the first ones down or… that’s what it looked like. Seven’s sniper, dingy white, that ugly little sapphire turtle that usually hung from the side lay off in the grass, covered in blood and matter, the scope blown out. Drifter’s heart sank. Six ran to his beloved’s side, hands pressing against Seven with a cautious shake.

_“Olympus evac.”_

_“Seven is down. We need an immediate pull.”_

_“How immediate? Prime is a few minutes out.”_

_“We need to get him out of here **now.** God, he’s barely breathing… Come back to me.”_


	5. Turtle Soup Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eye for an Eye brings death to Twelve ugly Turtles?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> has anyone really had turtle soup? (drifter isn't allowed to answer that question.)

Weeks turned months and the unrest within Olympus was at its highest. A single threat left them all worried about the families they’ve built and the gangs that lived within. Was it harmonious? Sometimes. Problems arose when you lived side by side with rogues and outlaws. But they protected their home as a way to earn their keep. None of them brought their “work” home. There were all sorts of other bunkers and hidey holes for them to congregate around Old Chicago, but this was their home. Their means of safety that never brought enemies too dangerous.

It was smart, but even with his on and off visits, Drifter never saw why someone would attack them aside from the occasional turf battle that aligned each little gang into a well-tuned army. Two months has he been there, just watching them try to restart their lives after losing two of their own. Both of them, members of that numerical group— _Primes,_  they called it. One was first, they said, but even she returned as a rogue guardian after they buried her. They rebuilt after her return. Then Twelve, but no one knows exactly what happened to them. A destroyed room, sparrows gone, blood everywhere… but no body. And then… Seven.

No, he’s not dead… just empty, is how Drifter noted him.  _Reverted_ , is what Six corrected.

The attack left him marred and under the blade of ex-Vanguard surgeons for hours. The side of Seven’s face left him almost unrecognizable. But they got him back with a few extra scars up and down his face and a new eye, built specifically for him.

“Grey looks good on ya. Tried to get your color just right but…  _eh._  How do  _you_  like it?”

Seven, vacant in stare, never glanced up from the floor. It was almost like meeting him all over again. That eerie silence that frightened most and made him unapproachable to others. But Drifter knew better. He knew despite that low, silent gaze, the Seven he  _knew_  was there, just… down and out, would be the best way to put it. Had he finally felt bested at his own skill or had he been kicking himself for months that he almost put his friends in jeopardy. Whatever he saw, whatever caught his attention, it saved Six’s life, at least.

Drifter would just come back over and over again if his Ghost permitted it… or at least, if she wasn’t caught up in the bullshit. Then again, she was smart, adaptive, knew how to navigate in harsher battle to keep herself alive and him up on his feet. Six and Seven don’t have that benefit. If they die—well, it was a good run for the both of them, at least.

And so he stands, adjusting his wrinkled black shirt, and opens his arms wide. Drifter can feel a few people gawking, the whispers gentle, but none (he hoped) rude. “Come on. Get up. Don’t need ya mopin’, buttercup. Bring it in.”

The common area felt focused on both of them, but someone had to do it. Six had left that morning for rounds and forging while Seven was left behind once again. Though things had stopped for him, everything else continued for everyone else. Perhaps that’s why things were so dour for him, poor thing had been cooped up for months.

But he hesitates then wiggles to his feet before planting himself, face first, into the chest of his friend. Drifter smells clean, despite his ragtag, space hobo aesthetic, and his embrace was tight— _lingering_. Seven didn’t want it to end.

“How do ya feel, sunshine?” Another attempt brings a soft pat to Seven’s back.

“Grateful,” Seven’s voice is muffled, “I owe you for everything… for being at Six’s side…  _Thank you._ ”

Drifter pulls back with a smile, “Anything for my friends. Can’t have ya croakin’ on me and leaving all that you’ve worked up to behind. Had t’ do my best. Keep ya pretty—even if you’re covered in scars… but people like scars. Find’em sexy, ya know?”

“Compliments will get you nowhere, D.”

“I’m just speakin’ facts. Someone’s gotta be the one to make you feel a little better after your mishap… guess it’s oughta be me or Six. I just happen to be the closest one.” That mismatched gaze of blue and silver almost caught his heart in his throat. Drifter was in too deep, wasn’t he? And like the umpteenth time, he shoved that feeling away and flashed another smile.

“Thanks. I needed it, really.” Seven huffed, “Without you… without you, I wouldn’t be here.”

There's a smile, brief before it melts away, Drifter goes quiet for a moment, “Now, to kill the mood: what happened up there?”

He’s greeted with a stare, one filled with anger on a level that burned as hot as Six’s hammers, “Twelve is still alive. Corrupted with… something. I couldn’t tell. Their eyes were pitch black and all I could see was blackened veins up… that’s all I could see through the haze and blood.”

“So what are you going to do about it?”

Seven’s lips scrunched for a moment, “Kill Twelve before they kill us… and that’s my promise.”


	6. Envious.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> there's a little bit of jealousy in that weirdo's heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't eat drink the vex milk...

“Why on earth did I have so many journals? That part I can’t piece together.”

“To document your adventures. Tell your story— _your side._  That and you really liked bullet journalin’. I remember you sayin’ that it was therapeutic, helped with really ventin’ yourself safely. An’ believe me, you decoratin’ your journal was a thing everyone pushed.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Absolutely. I watched a little girl back in Olympus bring you this really cutesy book that she requested to decorate with you. Real cute. Thought cha her brother for a while. It was like… you had imprinted on her, tried t’ replace what ya had before.”

Seven sat silent for a moment, thumbing through another journal, this one flower printed and colorful, “Did… Did she die like the others?”

Drifter shrugs, “The bodies we buried looked t’ be almost— _almost_  every member of Olympus, but I never saw her. You probably got her out to safety.”

“Do you remember her name?”

“No. It’s been a couple centuries, all I can remember is her face, but she was just a child then.”

Seven nods then leans back in his seat, “Out of all these, I did learn something: some are still missing and your little letters are refreshing. But–” He takes a rather long sip of his drink, “I’d like to hear some of these reminiscent encounters from you, if you don’t mind. No holdin’ back, I want to hear your unfiltered, not crossed out thoughts.”

Drifter takes a moment to shoo his ghost aside. Slowly does it tottle away to take One’s side and hums softly as they both power down into a quiet rest mode. Quietly, he shifts seats, sliding closer to Seven on the other side and pours himself another drink, “Fine. I’ll give ya what’cha want.”

* * *

 

I envied Six. Not in the way of trying to get rid of him but in a way where I wanted to  _be_  him. Six had that unfathomable power to tame that wild beast and no one knew how he did it. Honestly, I’m thinking the sex was top tier. How else did he hook you if everyone else couldn’t? Then again, I’ve seen you be raptured by a coloring book. Little things would soothe the angry beast, but he got lucky.

I loved being around you when I came to Olympus. I got to see things only others heard rumors of. I got to hear you at what came across as your happiest moments and your worst. And your worst was the best thing I had ever witnessed in my life. I had never— _and I mean this— **never**_  been so terrified and aroused at the pure sight of you covered in blood. I see someone, dimples in their smile, and I never just think of what about this person will just  _get_  me. Yet there you were, hands covered in cabal matter, blood dripping from your face—was it yours? Was it from the waves of enemies you got shoved into? Don’t fuckin’ know, not complaining about it.

Side note: That’s how I learned that fallen blood is darker than human blood and cabal is more orange. Real interesting.

But I remember, watching Six at your side, and Eight— _GOD, **EIGHT.**_  If I wanted a woman to murder me as quickly as you can a cabal with your hands as quickly as she did enemies with her legs, I’d die happily every time. But, I digress. The three of you, crushes aside, was the most beautiful fireteam I had ever lain my eyes on. The three of you worked so cleanly but left such a mess and it just left my heart a flutter. Actually did inspire Gambit with how you three used to fight in the pits… should’a went for pit fights…

Which, jokes included,  _Seven_  was a great name change. It fit you. You were lucky number seven—survived Twilight Gap. Won a pit battle against three cabal champions. I-I still don’t know the context to that one… Survived a point-blank shot to the face and still came back looking relatively not like a deformed piece of chewed gum. Lucky. You were so…  _lucky._  Lucky in the terms of just bypassing death until you felt it was time to bring your story to a close… And…

I should have buried you when I found you. Left you to rest because I knew— _I knew_  you wanted nothing to do with the Tower and its bullshit after the war and I knew the place would have been picked clean by scavengers… but it wasn’t. Left in the same standstill where people looked as if they were gunned down… and there you were, far too gone to be saved.

I had to swallow my stomach. Every ounce of me was sick and hurt because I wasn’t there and I didn’t think twice about your warning—Twelve came to smother your light and it look like they came with a fuckin’ army. But you survived and I’m sure a few others as well, but it’s always the stories from the Red Death that leave so much anguish in the long run. But I—

* * *

 

The confession is cut short with a sharp, needy kiss. All these stories, the interjection of letters and silent declarations left Seven floating. It was nice having someone else fill in those blank spots, but even better knowing the truth that seemed to fester and only grow more— _healthily_  that is. Drifter’s soundless infatuation had never died, and that itself, was clear. It simply tried to quash itself, disappearing into the past until it blossomed again at the sight of an old friend, alive and well.

Was it needed? Absolutely. It was a moment of agonizing yearning that felt like an eternity. And does Seven pull away? Only to breathe, but it’s not a second later until Drifter is free of his seat, an arm wrapped around the hunter’s waist to hold him close. That longing pounded away in his chest and left his fingers gripping the cloth of Seven’s bodysuit.

_Don’t let go,_  is what Drifter’s mind told him.  _Let go and he disappears again._

Just embrace the dream, if that’s what this is. It’s needed more than anything.


	7. Infatuation and Adoration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things happen when you're both head over heels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how long can it take me to write a sex scene without writing explicit sex? that is the challenge of the day.

There’s something about the Drifter that just stumps Seven—he’s a lot more level headed outside of Gambit. When they’re alone, he’s more quiet, tinkering on the junk he’s found or mindlessly lurking about the flat as if he had been lost in a busy train of thought. “Safer here,” Drifter said, “no junk in the way of my wanderin’. Won’t trip over shit when I’m doin’ nothin’ but relaxing.”

He’s been here for a few days, in and out, working with the fortunate souls who perish to his primeval for the thrill, then back to Seven, scouring through old books and journals to help with all those old memories. It sat pleasant, really. The company of the weirdest man on the tower became more pleasing than just ghosting around his raid team like an exhausted spirit. Here with Drifter, albeit the other man sleeps in the other room, he felt much more regenerated— _awake_ , if that were a better term.

The door to his bedroom slides open with a crack big enough for a body to slip through, and after a moment, one did. The dim light disappears once the door closes. A dark figure he may be, burly as he was tall, Drifter slinks across the room, as if trying not to wake the hunter watching quietly.

“Couch not comfortable?”

Drifter pauses, looking back at the bed, Seven unmoving, still on his side with his back to the door, “Nah. Real comfy, but your room has a place to shower.”

“That can’t be the reason why you came in here…” Seven turns over now, sitting up to eye Drifter warily, “Why are you really here?”

There’s something about this situation that screams that it had been “set up.” Not in the way of being trapped but as if he had walked into a classic movie moment. Something only old holo-films could replicate dead on to give in to that weird, promptly planned romantic aura. To Drifter, something about this was picturesque. The lighting makes it perfect. Big windows to let in that unearthly blue glow from the outside. The way he sat, hunched forward on crossed legs, the dark lighting just giving the outline of his face and back. It’s almost ethereal, as if the Traveler sent him a dead angel.

However, that’s just how Drifter feels. Instead, he clears his throat, ignoring the long pause and places his hands on his hips, “Ol’ Lucky pointed me in here.”

“Lucky?”

“It’s better than _One._ ”

“You’re judging me for the name of _my_ Ghost?”

“Not my fault ‘sa dumb name.”

Seven moves quietly, back to his side, gently like a cat, stretching out to turn his back to Drifter once again, “Still didn’t answer my question.”

“An’ I did. Told’ya Lucky sent me here. Your room is the only place with a shower.” He chuckles, inching closer to the bed, “I’m startin’ to smell like you Guardians.”

Seven perked up, “I would have kicked you out hours ago coming in here if you reeked of hive ass.”

“Fair. Fair… but…”

“But…?”

By time Seven turns back around, Drifter’s already at his side, balancing over the hunter with a voracious stare. Closer, he can see him better in the dim light. All those old scars still there, down his arms and across his back. It’s as if nothing had changed… aside from his hair. Granted, the greys where a given, no matter who you were—Guardian or not. And yet, he’s still _him._ Still beautiful…

“Come back to me, D.” He’s sitting up again, readjusting to sit comfortably, giving a nudge, “You spaced out on me.”

Drifter knows he’s staring, yet he’s acknowledged that it can’t be helped. It’s that nausea of lovesickness and he knows it. It sits in the pit of his stomach like a set of wriggling butterflies and he can’t do anything about it. And _God,_ he **_is_** soft in this lighting and Drifter is going mad. It feels like he’s waited centuries for this moment… Well, truthfully, he _has_ waited centuries for this moment… or at least something close enough to it. Then again, in the years of casual flings and exhausted nights, it feels as if no one has grabbed him as well as Seven had.

He frowns for a moment, trying to look away, but each time fails. He’s seen this man at his roughest—was there when he lost his eye and almost died, still, this was the moment he wanted the most. Drifter craved this gentle side of him more than he did anything from what he pulled from half-assed ascendant planes.

“Lemme just… take a sec. Work with me.”

Seven nods, “Fine. What am I working with?”

“Nothin’.”

No surprise. No easing into things. Just a quick pull and he’s lost again, crawling atop of the younger hunter, locked in a breathless kiss he had been thirsting for all evening. Nothing like the first one. Or the second dusted in casual pecks shared when passing in the halls. Or the lingering ones shared in private when Drifter’s clandestine space was empty. This one was charged— _hungry and demanding—_ and he wasn’t pushing away from it any time soon. Neither of them were honestly.

He’s a touch nervous, Seven is, can’t figure out why, either. It’s been a while, yes, but Drifter is no one intimidating… not when you dig deep under that thick skin of his to notice he just wants someone at his side. And even with casting his shirt to the floor, he’s still struggling with that first button… At least he got the shirt off with no problem. His hands are finally pushed away— _swatted_ , really.

Pulling back, Seven could feel Drifter press his forehead against his only to mutter, “Don’t worry ‘bout me. Don’t worry ‘bout me…”

Not another word was shared before Drifter went back to him, hands wandering beneath the band of his pajama pants, fingers cold and even colder when they grip flesh. Seven shudder and grabs at his lover’s wrist, a playful shove, “Your hands are fucking freezing.”

There’s a chuckle and a nip to the bottom of Seven’s chin. “You’ll be okay,” he coos, “don’t worry.”

_Don’t worry._

Can he sense how nervous Seven is? The shaking in his voice only covered by soft noises of him squirming under Drifter’s touch—that _heat_ replacing the cold of his hands. It’s mind numbing, with how Drifter feels at first as a sense of warmth at his stomach to now the intense heat between his legs. It’s a differences between the soft of his marred skin and the bristle of his beard grazing against sensitive skin—one drove Seven to the cusp of madness, the tickle grazing carefully against his inner thigh, nails raking on the out. He hated that prickle, but at the same time, with his own brown fingers digging into the scalp of his other, Seven craved it even more.

The latter came with a drag. A teasing touch and dusted, wet pecks up his abdomen. There are a few bites that come, pulling at skin and leaving behind welts and marks until red and bruised. And that brings a yelp, one sudden, but caught under his hands with a muffled noise Drifter seems to scowl at.

“Now, we’re not gonna have any of that.” His grin, mischievous, pulls away Seven’s hands, placing another kiss to exposed lips, “No covernin’ up. Like I said, don’t worry. It’s just me an’ you.”

It soothes him a bit. He still couldn’t place why he was so nervous to begin with. It’s not like it had been the first time he had been with anyone. Flings and one-night stands were common among Guardians. Seeing strangers peel off before dawn was normal, but why so anxious with _Drifter_ of all people? Though, to be cheesy about it? It’s probably because this one meant something. It wasn’t a _fling_. There were no series of dates beforehand just long mornings and even later nights. They were needed, enjoyed, loved… the company of someone who understood was understandably much more relaxing than other late nights crammed in the common space watching old holovids.

But this was good. Even with the first initial thrust that caught him off guard, yanking a hitch in his breath and dropping his head back to the pillow below. Fingers skim down the sides of the man above him, feeling the scars that he bore and then some. Here, comes a feeling that can’t be explained, his body responding with an arch of his back and wandering hands searching through the fur of his other’s chest before making their way up his neck and combing through the soft of his beard, pulling him lower— _closer_ to him.

Their breathing is almost rhythmic, gentle moans to break the silence and the mindless words the babble from their mouths in a sense of praise and infatuation. _God,_ is it needed. The thrusts, heavy and hard, slow and lingering, feel as if they melt the stress from his shoulders, relaxing his body into a pool of euphoria Seven simply never wants to leave. So he fights for more, twisting and turning in his bed, shoving Drifter over into the mattress to place himself atop with a swift ease of his lover back into him, inch by inch with a groan of satisfaction to follow.

Let it be a dream if it has to be, one neither of them wish to forget but both want to revel in. Let it be the moment that lasts for an eternity while their Light still exists. Even in bliss, as an orgasm washes over, let it be that one little moment that leaves them happy and alive.

Together, that is.


	8. Grave  Thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A heavy, HEAVY, gentle spoiler warning for the Malfensense quest. It's not very spoilery, but this does take place after the Corrupted mission.  
> So there's that.  
> And if you haven't played that quest-- wooo it's... it's something alright.

_“Do me a solid and have a chat with your boyfriend. I feel like this thing he wants me to do is getting too far under his skin.”_

Seven peeked from around the door frame of his bedroom, spotting Drifter toeing off his boots at the door, stuck in a muffled chat with his Ghost, “ _I got you, Charlii. I don’t think he meant anything from it, but I’ll chat with him. Might be something even more to this story than we know._ ”

His captain sighs over the comms, Shaxx’s boisterous laughter roaring in the background, “ _The man is shiftier than a rickety, rusted cell tower. I want to know everything._ ”

“ _Then stay connected._ ”

Is it dangerous, of course, Seven has his gun tucked away in the holster that sat connected loosely on the waistband of his pajama pants, all covered away by the length of his t-shirt. It’s done out of habit, not out of fear. There’s nothing about Drifter that scares him, but mostly too much that worries him. It’s been like this for centuries, sadly. Always moving. Always talking. Always focused on the world around him as if everyone and everything is an enemy… but those he showed trust in, he hoped for it in return. Called you his friend. Ensured your safety at his side or lost somewhere in the black galaxy above.

It was comforting… if there wasn’t so much weird controversy around him… Weird, like too many bizarre occurrences, not weird as in things never adding up.

“I remember your crew,” Seven starts, “distrustful lot those bastards were. The one thing One told me was: they all look shifty to me, kill them on sight if they do anything unworthy.”

“But you didn’t shoot me.”

“But I wanted to.”

Drifter chuckles with an uneasy smile almost shaking across his features, yet instead he squints, “You’re funny.”

Seven stared at him that dead glaze over his eyes all too familiar and much too cold for his liking. With the centuries that had passed, he Drifter had assumed that empty glare had died along with his human self… Well, it _was_ just an assumption. Yet, the stare sent a shiver up his spine. Seven wasn’t laughing nor had he declared it just being a little joke. Instead he sits back, “I spent far too much time watching all of you through my scope. Your people would have never seen that shot to their Ghosts coming. _I wanted to do it._ ”

Drifter squinted at that— _I wanted to do it._ Says a lot for a man who’d shoot down targets without remorse. There were times where he had seen Seven shake when it came to resisting that urge that drove him… but as many questions as he held, all of them were quickly answered without a second thought. Seven, then, was the perfect mindless weapon. Following on impulse was something that had been groomed into him. Take them down, even if they weren’t a threat— ** _they could be._**

Nevertheless, that kill order made sense. Strangers who stepped into Olympus rarely left. Some came solely for trade, others were seen as infiltrators, and with the Primes running all of Olympus despite how many gangs lived within its spacious halls, blood flowed more freely than the gasoline that powered their generators.

Just one of those little things that simply sat covered up for ages— _centuries_ even.

He gives another laugh to lighten the mood, “You wouldn’t kill me now, would’ja?”

“Depends on why I’d even have to lift a gun against you.” He pauses, “Then again, either way it’d be without hesitation… especially after you threatened Charlii this morning? There’d be no question.”

Drifter’s focus narrowed on the revolver Seven placed between them. He had done it with no stutter in his voice and not an ounce of regret or sadness. He didn’t even hear it click to the kitchen counter. Shame, really.  Despite it all, even with given a new life and a better outcome on life, he’s still stuck on that murderbot mentality that shaped him into some type of angry monster. Looks like even when you’re reborn and your memory wiped clean, you still do retain everything, even if it feels wrong and you _know_ it’s wrong, it’s still there, buzzing at the back of your head like an angry wasp… but the only thing about this is: he’s learned to control it a bit better than before. And with the fact that Drifter has never seen him on current missions, he must still be very, horrifyingly, thorough.

No bodies left behind.

**_No witnesses._ **

“Look, whatever she told ya, I didn’t threaten her.”

Seven clears his throat, “You cross me and, well, let’s say it wasn’t an accident that man found Callum.” He tapped at his temple a few times with a frown, “I am _always_ chimed into Charlii’s comms when she’s on a mission… What is happening? Who is The Gunslinger.”

Drifter shrugs, shaking his head with a grimace, “A stalker, that’s about it. Don’t know what I’ve done to piss that man off, but he’s been after us like Twelve came after all of you… only thing is, we’re both alive, and our stalkers? Hopefully both of them are dead and we don’t have to worry twice… but I doubt that. I keep _hearin’_ him, sometimes _seein’_ him when I was out there in unnamed space.”

“You’ve never mentioned this before… why?”

“Because I wanted it handled quickly and quietly. I wanted to know why I was being hunted like some blind deer in the middle of a wide open forest—why me? Why **_us_**? We were nobodies, Seven. It’s like spending centuries hunting down one specific outlaw because he shat on your clean new boots— _I just don’t know why._ And If I knew, I’d tell ya… would have been told ya.”

Seven eventually eases up then reaches across the counter for the gun between them. Pushing the revolver free with his thumb, he places the weapon back between them with a soft click. Nothing, there were no bullets in that gun.

“I’m worried,” he says, “hearing you so… serious really put me on edge. You’re never _that_ serious about something… and then overhearing the conversation with you and her and… I… I don’t know. I… couldn’t let something happen to someone I cared about.”

“So, you’d shoot me?”

There’s a click over his comms, Charlii’s disconnected. “No. I’d threaten and provoke until I got something… but I don’t think I could actually _hurt_ you. I don’t know what it is about you that keeps me grounded, but I need that.”

There’s another sound of discomfort. Drifter leans across the counter with his head down for just a moment, “Really thought you were gonna put a bullet in me.”

“Nope.”

He sighs, “I will tell you everything when I know the rest of the story. _I will._ I just… I don’t know the ending and I’m fuzzy on the details… and that’s the honest truth.” There’s a long, unwanted pause between the two of them. Seven quietly clicking the cylinder back into place before Drifter calls him back with a touch, “Were you really contemplating taking us out back then?”

Silence. “Yes.”

“Why didn’t you do it?”

“Even with the gang, I only really had you, Six, and Eight. I couldn’t take that order without killing a part of myself even further.” He chews on his lip and sighs, “You were my friend, D. _My best friend._ ”


	9. O Date Night Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> date night, smate night. amirite guys?

For once, it’s a pleasing sight to see the hunter so grounded. Drifter thought he was kidding when he told him how busy things got. He’d see Seven straggle in without a word just to disappear into his flat in the lower levels of the tower or simply curl up behind him in the back alley he’d occupy for a cat nap before heading back out a few hours later. Yet days, almost _weeks_ , would float by and he’d hear only a slightly static filled call or receive a blurry holovid to “catch up on things,” but this was… nice. Relaxing… _Human._

There’s no forced comfort here. No forced conversation. Just the idle sounds of the sounds of faint conversation and the mindless slurping of what was a drink in an empty cup.

“How did you find me?”

Drifter looked up from his bowl, sitting a set of chopsticks aside with a sigh, “Made it back into claimed space. Heard some peppy, happy voice chirp about how someone had defeated Shaxx in Crucible for the first time in a _long_ time in his little tournament. Ignored it the first time.”

“Doesn’t answer my question.”

“I’m getting’ there, hold on.” He takes a long sip of his drink the ice clattering to the bottom of the glass once he hits it back down, “When I made it to a port, all I could see was a messy scramble of a tiny screen and they were now talking about the members of the Vanguard—Fireteam Cerberus. But that’s when I saw _you_. Well, it was blurry as all shit, but I saw _you_. So I made contact when I entered Vanguard space. Sent you the holo-message I found on your body.”

_Silvian Marx, that is who I was before…_

He looked up, eyes wide, “Y-you sent that?”

Drifter nodded, “Held on to that thing for centuries because somethin’ in me just _knew_ I was gonna need it.”

“Why did you send it?” His voice is soft, staring down at the stained restaurant table, “Why did you want me to know anything about any of this?”

There’s a moment where time stopped. He could feel a grip tighten around his hand much too tightly. The sound around them silenced, but there only sat he and Drifter’s empty, listless stare. And he pulls, but no avail, his hand still taut within the other man’s.

“You deserved to know what monsters creep, o lover mine.”

Seven froze, a cold fear overtaking him for a short moment, and a harsh grasp stunting his ability the breathe, “Excuse me?”

“The Dark will remove you from us, o bearer mine, with blood and distrust. You are to let him do this to us, faithful bearer. Kill him first. Watch the sanguine river run because you deserve strength over snakes—even after true wishes have come.”

_…If I ever return as a Guardian, which heaven knows I don’t want to it to happen, send this to me with no message when you find me._

Seven snatches his hand away and shoves himself from the table with a clatter. The chair had fallen behind him and the room now stares. In a panic, he yanks his gauntlets free from his arms, eyes blurred, but wide and fearful. All those little stories about how old Ahmakara bones still speak never once worried him. They were bones—fossils of dead monsters that deserved their extinction. Yet that was different… that was _new_.

_I deserve to know what happened before I died._

There are hands at his cheeks, calloused and rough, giving him a little shake. Though muffled under his panic, he can hear Drifter calling out for him. “Come back to me,” he spoke, “I’m here.”

His heart is still pounding, throat dry and head spinning from it all. _What was that if not Drifter?_ Those voices from old bones aren’t real… are they? He stared down at the disembodied gauntlets at his feet then back up to the staring faces then over the Drifter.

“Ahmakara bones are no joke, sunshine.” His hands are still comfortably at Seven’s face, “Wanna blow’em up to make sure they don’t keep bothering you? We’ll get rid of’em, ‘kay?”

An uneasy nod, “At least ask for the check first?”

Drifter gives another nod, a kiss at the temple of the younger hunter, “Of course. Check first, bombs later.”


	10. Quiet Deaths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please take the suicide mention seriously, 007.  
> also this was mostly a stream of consciousness, so we don't edit shit like professionals, my friends. but no, really, sometimes you just gotta write when you're in a mood. it helps.

“You finished it for her… didn’t ya? I’m not mad about it. The important part is that it’s been complete. Come see me you’re free. I got somethin’ for you.”

Reverse it. Lead the snakes to you, or that’s how Charlii notes it. Seven seems to be good with that. And he eventually shows hours after Seven lands with a bit of swagger in his step and a mischievous grin on his lips. Nothing uncommon from the shady back-alley dealer who always seems to look more seedier as days pass through.

Nonetheless, he seems more enthused than he should. That smile wrinkles the edges of his eyes and it almost worries Seven… but not as much as the information he’d receive about the body he found etched into a rock inside of an ascendant plane. Nothing about that sat well in his stomach. He knew about the life he led before all of this was criminally bad, but… _this_? What was _this?_

And the worst part is that Drifter, smug as can be, still kept his words vague and empty.

…There’s a box in his hands.

“What… what do you have there?”

It’s sleek. Matte black with green latches and presented between the two of them as if it was something normal. Drifter holds it out to him, flipping the middle latch with his ease but still holding it shut. “We made somethin’ _magical,_ my friend.”

“Magical, huh?”

The box opens slowly and out peeks a dim white glow. As it opens, the glow dissipates into a murky unnatural, _lit_ , black mess of thick pooling black smoke. It felt too… _familiar._ It almost called to him with a hushed beckon, its sickly whisper humming to him with a buzz that felt all too memorable. In his heart, Seven hated it. Seven abhorred the nauseating feeling that sat in the pit of his stomach when gazing down at the sight of this weapon— _Malfeasance,_ from what Drifter called it.

“Take it,” he said, “it ain’t gonna bite ya.”

The gun looked familiar… Like a warped, evil turn of Thorn, but that gun, as beautiful as it was, didn’t feel like _this._ It didn’t feel as if the mere touch of it was going to suck the light from his body and leave him at the brink of true death once again.

_But where did he feel something like **this** from?_

This _sickness_ bled from the moment he held Crimson in his hands for the first time. Charlii’s was gorgeous, ivory white and laced in gold, silver decal along its blade at the belly, and the crisp gold spikes just at the barrel… however, it felt evil. Not _dangerous_ — ** _evil._ ** Like this one, it spoke to him, but he could hear it. It demanded blood. It craved death… but this one? Malfeasance? It wanted chaos alongside its rampage.

And now with it in his hands, it’s cold. It feels like the life is draining from his hands as if he had gone numb to the winter snow. His heart is pounding now, his mind scrambling to figure out why— _what about this gun is **wrong**_?

Then it clicks.

**_Oh God, does it click._ **

Something slaps him down like a sharp bullet to the chest and leaves him frozen in his place, the taken gun limp in his hand. His vision blurs and a knot tightens in his stomach. Everything connects at once in such a dizzying cluster—the beck and call from Malfeasance reminds him of the Red Death.

Oh, that sweet lull echoes sweetly in his head like a festering nightmare. He remembers it all too well, that angry demand for blood. The screech of excitement it bellowed in his soul when chaos ran rampant… he _feels_ it in this… He feels that diabolical, monstrous feeling once again—the one thing that killed him so many years ago. And yet he can’t let it go, even wit hit hands shaking visibly.

“Seven?” A hand at his arm, soft and cautious, pulled him back with a startle, his body wracking over with a noticible tremble. “C’mere.”

It’s almost difficult to pull the gun free from his hands, for his grip taut, yet it eventually falls loose. Seven can’t seem to breathe. That message—the holo recording he left so long ago, runs back and forth in his head. The fear in his voice. The smell of iron in the air.

_There was blood everywhere._

Bodies were strewn all around the compound of human and charred cabal alike. Death sat heavy in that old colony bunker down in the depths of Old Chicago. Out of all the stories left behind in his journals, nothing prepared him for the carnage of seeing those he called family, slaughtered like animals simply because one of them had been left to die alone with that little fact that they couldn’t save Twelve nor could they bring them back.

Although, despite that, in the end, Seven, too, was left alone to die.

Drifter’s holding him close now, his rough fingers brushing through short, silver hair of his lover. Though the moment is silent and the emotion is stained onto Seven’s features, Drifter asks nothing of it. The moment will come when Seven speaks up on this moment. For now, being cradled in Drifter’s grasp, hearing him coo softly in his ear, brings nothing but gentle wave to soothe him.

It’s going to be a while before he truly acknowledges the day he killed himself with that cursed gun…


	11. Dark Chocolate Motes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eva lavante is back on the tower and as a veteran, i can't tell y'all how much i love my grandma.

“You tattled on me!?”

“ _I_ didn’t,” Charlii gave her partner a grin that seemed to reek of mischievousness, one that felt too toothy on a woman like her… then again, he’s worked at her side for almost a decade now. Seven ought to be used to _that_ smile… or well, the smile on brown full lips that mindlessly fell into the depths of the Hellmouth with that impending bliss as if she were going to die down in that pit of black. Specific, yes, but that’s the smile in a nutshell. “Bri got to Eva first. Told her everything.”

“ _Everything?_ ” Seven repeated, “That’s why she’s staring down Drifter like she’s ready to roast that man over a literal open fire?”

The warlock’s brows raised as she peeked over the brim of her coffee cup. After a slow sip, she clears her throat, “You think she’d serve him in a meat pie?”

“Oh, that’s disgusting.”

She shrugs, taking another sip of her drink, then finally huffs, “You can try and explain it to her about the two of you, but I doubt she’s gonna like him any further. Accept your punishment, _mon ami_ , or face the wrath of mama bear.”

First Shaxx cringed at the thought of Drifter and Saladin gave him a firm “watch your back” warning, then the rest of the team simply teased him about it for days on end. Most of them settled with him lurking about while the rest of the team kept their distance. They barely spoke and it seemed to be content among the rest… but Eva? He never expected for Eva to ever return to the tower.

Unlike the rest, she spoke her mind freely, but stayed kind. She’s scowl and give you a disappointed frown, like any parent would, but she’d ultimately try for a lesson with simple punishments that’d drive a man crazy with how long they’d take until she ground that one simple lesson into her Guardians. That’s who they all were, weren’t they? The veterans, that is… They were all _her_ Guardians. **_Her_** children… and they treated her as the motherly figure she always presented herself to be.

Seven huffed, fixing the quiver at his thigh in the shuddering elevator. This morning he greets the sight of the tower without his weapons or his helmet. He was to run errands for her down in the city. What was his lesson? Who knew. He knew she’d eventually explain herself until she was ready to release him back into the wilds of the battlefield, but for now—cookie deliveries. The Dawning was coming soon and things still needed to be sent out and gifted, but post-carriers weren’t as quick as Guardians.

A few greet him with a smile and a nod as he pushes through the small crowds, but he can see her. The tiny elderly woman swamped with other Guardians, a lot of them quiet, but unusually happy. Some left with armfuls of boxes, others with even less, picking through them to eat the delectables within. And there he stands, a head above some and a couple above her, but he could feel it.. that weird lingering feeling of disappointment that radiated from Eva.

As crowds dispersed, she stood there silently before placing her hands on her hips, “I’d accept that cult-y one… Victor? No, _Vance,_ over this one who’s going to get you killed.”

“I can honestly only take so much of Vance’s weird adoration about Osiris before I physically snap.”

“What I’m trying to say is that you can do far better than some snake in the garden.”

“I know…”

Eva stares up at Seven, that honey gold gaze so hardened, “I don’t trust him, Seven. He’s not… there’s something about him that simply screams **_dishonest._** What do you see in him? What made you remotely interested in such criminal garbage?”

Seven paused. They may have tattled on him, but they didn’t know _everything._ They know what they see—a tired hunter and that awkward man he strings himself to. Was it a casual fling or were they serious? Did Seven honestly love him or is Drifter the true manipulator they’ve assumed he was from the beginning? So many questions and yet no true answer… Then again, no one ever asked him for an answer.

So, he gives one. He grab’s Eva’s hand with a gentle tug and ushers her to the quiet common spaces above the bazaar. It’s empty, as it usually is. A few chairs in odd places to show that a fire team or group of commoners had been up there at one point but have long gone. However, he still felt as if he needed to defend himself—defend _Drifter_ at least. But where does he start? Where does he even begin with the line of bullshit and disarray that was his life? With a picture, of course. One old and almost colorless, but one of an old, rare smile…

And two eyes.

“We were close back then… when I was alive.” He watches her thumb over the picture. It was one that had been saved and taken with archaic film. The pictures out of that batch were blurry and messy, but a moment he remembers vividly. He had never seen a camera as old as those. Slim and tiny in his hands and definitely would explode if you charged it with the energy your sparrow could pump out. “He’s not… exactly what you think he is. He’s no criminal… just weird. Not used to being around so many people anymore.”

“You don’t have defend him, my boy. Just because of my feelings toward him--”

“Not him, _me._ I have to defend myself. The team doesn’t know the truth.”

Eva sat up in her seat, hands in her lap, “Then tell me. What truth is there that they don’t know?”

“I ran with a gang. I was a wanted felon. I had nothing… barely had the gang I was with. And he gave me a friend. One who wanted to see me get better and do better… and from there, that’s a lot of unfolding history.”

“So, you rekindled an old flame?”

Seven shook his head. “There was never one to reignite in the first place. I was… just in a dark place and he just happened to be there to kinda guide me back. He may be shifty and in all terms uncouth… but I owe him more than people think I should.” He sighs, standing from the rickety chair with a scrape and the sound of fabric fluttering as he spun his cape around his shoulders. “Anyway. Uh… What did you need me to deliver?”

Eva stared up at the hunter for a moment. Watching him clip his cape into place and silently adjust the rest of his armor. Over the time she’s known him, Seven had been an honest man. Younger than his team, but never one as extravagant as the rest of them. Yet she knew one thing—he’d never lie to her. Probably skirt around the truth, yes, but he’d never give such a boldfaced lie. Instead of pressing on, she places a cloth wrapped gift onto the table between them, one she had carried with them the entire time.

“Only one, dear. Take this to your paramour. It never came from me. Then I won’t need you until tomorrow.”

It takes her a moment, even with a soft hand to help her up, and then she’s quietly headed back to her spot on the tower. Back to the small group of Guardian’s that patiently waited for her return. As she speaks to them, she can see Seven slowly making his way to that slightly opened gate, creeping under as another slid out to leave. He stood back, close to the wall, watching others leave in a rush. Slowly, like a cryptid emerging from the dark, Drifter steps out from behind the wall.

She can’t hear them, but the look of shock and hesitance says it all. For a man who claims he knows nothing of the Dawning, Drifter’s face almost proves her right. He knows, all right, although, it just seems that he’s simply never had anyone to properly celebrate it with. Must be interesting to have never celebrated such a holiday that brings stability and happiness. How must that feel? For the both of them, that is.

Alas, those are questions saved for another time. She’ll ignore it. Let them be happy and enjoy that box of chocolates.


End file.
